When I see you in my dreams
by phiewdh
Summary: Yuuri questions everything in his life as he returns to his childhood home, feeling nothing but a void inside. But something happens that makes him see. Really see.
1. Chapter 1

**First and foremost, this is a nod to one of my absolute favorite manga authors, Saki Hiwatari.**

 **It's an alternative universe-setting, without any skating, but heavy on psychology instead. This is a story with a lot of twists and turns. I hope you will enjoy it as it develops. Thanks in advance! xoxo**

* * *

For some reason, the daydreams are always gentle to him. Like a mother's touch in the morning, like the first rays of sunlight warming one's skin. The daydreams are also more caring and comforting than the reality he was soon to face. In them, he could be anyone, overcome everything. Feel doubtless and whole, at least for a little while.

His reality is very different than the soft, hazy bubble he hid himself inside of whenever he got the chance. He is about to go back home after so many years, without no plan, no purpose, no nothing. In all honesty, he had been studying with half a heart, half a mind. Not really making anyone proud, not even himself. To his defense, that is how it's been for him for almost as long as he can remember. Trying to please, do things with a pretended passion but always finding himself being lost, or rather, that he's lost something he can't fully understand. Sometimes, it feels empty but he has been honing that skill for years, how to push all that away. How to keep his head above water and endure.

He is brought out of his reveries by a shove, and a voice growing weaker with every passing second.

"Yuuri, come on! It'll start soon, we need to go!"

He looks at his friend, his best friend if he had to put a label on him. He's standing in the doorway, being both in- and outside their room. On his way. Such a describing image. It's hard, excruciatingly hard, not to get swept away by the symbolism, knowing they were to separate in a matter of days. Imagine that, leaving someone after spending years together, doing _everything_ together. Thinking about it brings forth a flutter inside, fed and sustained by the inevitable separation. He hates goodbyes, he always had, although he has no particular reason to. It one of those things he just carried with him without giving it a second thought, something he always considered to be a part of his personality.

"Coming." He shakes off the feeling. Or tries to. After all, they're still together and being stuck on events yet to happen is not only cruel to oneself, it's rude to others. "Do you have the keys, Phichit?"

"Of course," he beams, twirling the keychain around his index finger before putting it back in the pocket of his jacket. "So, are you excited about today?" They fall into the same rhythm, friends being friends, walking down the stairs and crossing the courtyard. Heading for the auditorium.

"I guess…" He's lying. He's beyond excited. He's elated. To think that the main reason for him deciding to study psychology is at their university is beyond him. It tops the magical feel of his childhood birthdays, the sense of being free at the first trembling day of summer as a boy. The katsudon his mother made when he managed any academic achievement, like his very first homework. This might actually be the moment, when the circle will become full. When he might start understanding himself a bit more. When he might get the push he needs to be sure of his decisions in life, that they've been good and purposeful. Hopefully, after today he might even be able to leave that gnawing hesitation behind, making him trust in himself if he's lucky.

He's read every publication translated, read every case study. He knows every choice he's ever made for him to be where he is today. He wouldn't call himself a stalker, that would be harsh even by his standards, but he _is_ interested in him. His intellect. His knowledge. The opportunity to see him, to maybe get an opportunity to tap into that mind of his makes his heart beat faster.

"You're funny, Yuuri," Phichit muses as he opens the outer doors to the auditorium, dodging people on their way out. "If you want to be in denial, and you know what _he_ would say about being in denial, then go ahead. You know it'sㅡ"

"Primitive, I know," he retorts. "I'm not in denial, I just…" _I just can't believe this is happening._

They press themselves through the mass of people, up the stairs and to the left. As luck would have it, the psychology majors were the first ones to be let in due to the fact that the lecture was arranged by their faculty. They find seats, Yuuri demands they sit in the back to Phichit's surprise, and they watch as the auditorium gets filled. Seat by seat gets inhabited by noisy, lively and excited students.

Not waiting for it to simmer down, the head of their faculty steps out down below, fidgeting with the power button to the microphone. A giggle of recognition, of nostalgia spreads out. Yuuri realises that during his five years there, he can't remember the headmaster ever getting that right on her first try. Others seem to agree.

"Students," she taps the microphone and frowns when she can't hear herself in the speakers, "students, oh there we go, hello! Good morning, psychology majors, psychology students, guests from other faculties. We are thrilled to offer you this possibility of listening to one of, if I may say so myself, the most promising new theorists within our sphere. Most of you have probably heard about him already," the headmaster continues, not knowing that somewhere in the audience, one of her majors is getting stabbed in the side by an elbow belonging to a friend, "so I won't make any introductions today. I'll leave it to him if he deems it necessary. So, without further ado, please welcome our guest, all the way from St. Petersburg, Russiaㅡ"

* * *

 _Victor Nikiforov._

He is there. Down there, in front of him. No, in front of all of them. Yuuri can't understand that he never spotted him on the stage. After all, he was sitting there, all relaxed on a chair in plain sight. It's when he moves he gets his attention. His undivided attention. With a cool, he gets up. Pushes his hair back and smiles, a smile that makes a collective sigh vibrate across the auditorium. He walks slowly, with one hand outstretched, ready to relieve the headmaster of the microphone.

"What was that? 'I guess', huh," Phichit whispers. Apparently picking up on the sigh, or gasp rather, his friend was blatantly unable to stifle.

"Shh!" Yuuri feels put on the spot as his cheeks starts to heat up. He feels childish all of a sudden, being stuck on the thought that this might, just might, be life changing for him. How unreasonable as it may seem. He forgets his predicament when his thoughts are interrupted by a voice he can honestly say he's been waiting to hear. Wondering what it actually might sound like. Again, he inhales, slightly less sharp this time.

"Good evening," he starts before he interrupts himself with a laugh. "Jet lag, you know. Good morning! Thank you for having me. As all of you know, my name is Victor Nikiforov. I'm twenty-seven years old and I'm born and raised in Russia. I speak Russian, English obviously, and French." He pauses for a while, lets his eyes travel across the expectant crowd whilst tapping his lips with a finger. Like he's deep in thought. "That sounded like a personal ad or something, didn't it?"

The laughs that follow doesn't seem to add or take anything away from him or his confidence. Yuuri doesn't laugh, though. He holds his breath, eager for Victor to continue. Or start. Or… just do something, take back the control he gave away to the many listeners watching him. He sounds warm. Open. Approachable. That accent, the way he seems to speak further back in his mouth than native English speakers, is mesmerising. A breath of fresh air. Yuuri understands, just by watching him, that he loves the attention. He thrives being in the spotlight, having eyes on him. Being somewhat of a showman with the way he's interacting with his listeners, dropping jokes and being unsparing with himself.

"So, I got my Ph.D in psychology when I was twenty-three. As most of you know, my main interest is patients suffering from phychoses. That is what I'm going to talk to you about today. Also, I love questions so just… ask them, okay?" He loosens his tie, he's impeccably dressed in a light shirt underneath a dark suit which makes him stand out due to his fair complexion and silver hair. "Psychosis, taken from the Greek word _psyche_ , meaning soul, mind or breath, and the suffix _-osis_ , to lose, tells us a lot about how the condition is looked upon. Imagine losing your soul, your mind. Your breath. Sounds like you're dead, doesn't it? That you've lost the essence of life itself?"

Yuuri finds himself bobbing along, like Victor's words are the ocean and he's just something small and insignificant. Like a piece of bark, a buoy. Something that gets carried along by the slow waves his voice creates. He hears all that he already knows, the history of the condition, the inhuman treatment of patients of old. What is considered to be the causes, a discussion about nature and nurture, trauma. What to expect in patients with schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, depression, post-traumatic stress, reactive psychosis. How to treat, what to consider. How to meet them where they are, with respect, although their reality differs so immensely from what we consider to be true.

Time flies by listening to him. How he takes his time, how he engages them by asking questions, making sure they understand. How he offers insight by telling them about patients he's met during his clinical practise. Yuuri wants to know more, he wants to know everything, walk beside him for a day, a week, a month and pick his brain. He wants to understand.

"And finally," Victor's voice claims the attention again, demands it with a little huffing sound like his thoughts have amused himself, "I want to talk to you about something special. _Folie à deux_ , or delusional disorder by proxy or shared psychotic disorder is extremely rare, but it surfaces every once in a while. The transference of delusional beliefs from one person to another, or several. Like, for instance, the Tromp family from Australia and the Eriksson sisters from Sweden. You have heard about them, yes?"

Nods and agreeing noises are heard and Victor continues. He talks about finding the inducer, the primary patient, and what can be done to make the situation controllable. What is wise to consider when evaluating, if it really is a bad case of co-dependency, treatment, causes. The need to separate patients to see if there is a chance for recovery.

"Yes?" He stops explaining, with his eyes locked on a specific place in the auditorium.

Yuuri almost hiccups. It looks like he's staring straight at him, but none of his hands are in the air, nor has he said anything. A thousand thoughts roll around in his mind, suddenly interrupted when he hears someone clear his throat, a familiar voice sounding loud and clear.

"And shared dreams, Mr. Nikifoㅡ"

"Victor, please."

"Yes, Victor. Shared dreams, is that something that can be attributed to _folie à deux_ too?"

Yuuri isn't sure about what surprises him more, that _Phichit_ is asking _Victor_ a question or the fact that there seems to be a change in him. In _Victor Nikiforov_. He who has been holding court, basking in the light of everyone's attention. Loving it. Enjoying it. Almost… needing it.

He has a frown on his face, that is obvious, but he collects himself quickly. Answers with a smile that isn't quite like the first one he fired off at them in the beginning of the lecture. It's more strained. More guarded with the intention of putting on a show, somehow. Like he's steering clear of something he doesn't want to acknowledge. "Dreams," he asks. "You have to be more specific. Please."

"Well," Phichit continues, "say if several individuals start having dreams, the same ones with all the details being consistent, is that a case of _folie à deux_ too?"

"Are the dreams discussed amongst the people involved?"

"I would think so. When they realise they share them."

"So, just to see if I understand you correctly; You are asking if people who share the exact same dreams, people who apparently discuss the dreams in detail with each other openly, could possibly be susceptible to _folie à deux_?"

"Well, no notㅡ"

"Then the answer is yes. Absolutely." He takes his eyes off Phichit, addresses the entire audience with a voice that has lost its warmth. "This was actually a very good example. Shared dreams. If people rally behind something they have discussed beforehand, then it could very well be a case of _folie à deux._ Even so, people with a predisposition might be looking for cues, the information of said dreams beforehand might evoke an interest and thus… making it complicated. But I digress."

He is interrupted by the headmaster, who clears her throat as she walks up to him. "I am sad to say, or, I must regrettably tell you, Victor, that we're out of time. Thank you so much for your insight in the topic of psychoses, it's been very educational. This, I am sure that our majors will take with them as they go on in life. Maybe some of them will follow in your footsteps." She extends her hand and squeezes Victor's as she gets close.

The audience starts applauding. Not noticing that two of its listeners, who previously sat in the very back of the auditorium, have already left.

* * *

He follows him, with a throat that feels snared and eyes latched on to his back. The mirrored rhythm they shared before is nowhere to be seen, discord being the only word applicable to the way their strides sound as they walk over the gravel-covered yard.

"Phichit, wait!" He's in disbelief, still. "I said wait!"

Phichit does, stops right in his tracks with one foot on the steps to the dormitory. He speaks over his shoulder, sounding nothing like the happy-go-lucky person Yuuri knows and cares for so deeply. "So, are you happy? You finally met him. Was it all you had hoped for it to be?"

"Don't be like that." He realises that he speaks in a low voice, one that conveys his… yes, his disappointment. The understanding hurts him, this wasn't at all what he had hoped the lecture to end. On a heartbreaking note, in several different ways.

"Did you hear how condescending he was? Your idol?"

To be fair, it got out of hand. For some reason. The whole exchange, with Phichit feeling mercilessly executed and Victor changing right before them into something else. That aloof, cheery demeanor morphed into something quite the opposite. Yuuri did hear and did see, all of it, and he reluctantly agrees. Not out loud, though, but that is part of his confusion. Instead, he decides to confront the one he has access to. The one he knows he can speak freely with, no matter what. "Phichit. You asked _the_ question. I know," he clears his throat to make it open up some more since it still feels too narrow, to stressed, "I _know_ that you're not crazy. That there must be a logical explanation for all that. The dreams."

"Even though I'm the only one having them? Yuuri, it means that if others ever should come forward, the chance of them being say, as _normal_ as me," he turns around making air quotes with his fingers, "is, according to Victor Nikiforov, not a possibility. It's a shared delusion, he said so himself."

"I… I know that some things just cannot be explained. Not that easily. Not by science. Still, it's not like they're hurting anyone, right? The dreams you have?"

He relaxes hearing this, obvious by the way his shoulders fall down and how his breathing changes. Hearing Yuuri's awkward attempt of disarming the situation, diverting his anger, apparently helped.

"They are so real though, you know? It really feels like I'm there, that everything that happens just resound within me. Strange though, that I'm the one having them but it's not me. I'm not in those dreams. They never use my name."

"I know. You've told me." Yuuri closes the gap between them, the six or seven paces necessary to get close, and puts his arm around his friend's shoulders. "Shall we go back? Eat something? I think there are at least three cups of noodles left so…"

Phichit seems amused by this and nods. "One last time, you mean? How can I say no?"

They walk up the stairs, sounding much like one person again. Finding some kind of comfort in knowing that they have each other for the rest of the day, and the one that is to come. Then, they'll go their separate ways, with Yuuri going back to Japan and Phichit heading for Thailand. But then is not now, and they focus on the now. It feels better that way.

* * *

The day that follows, the tomorrow, is a day filled with bittersweet endeavours from start to finish. It being the final day they have together does things to them, it puts a damper on their moods, the way they think and even the weather outside.

They pack in silence, it's an agreement they have reached without saying anything. Listening to the rain outside when it makes little staccato-like solos on their windowsill.

For staying so long in a place without coming home once, Yuuri's got not much to pack. His clothes go into his large, orange spinner. His books, or the ones he chose to keep anyway, are packed in a box easily carried under one arm.

"You're honestly choosing Nikiforov's books over this? Are you kidding me?" Phichit breaks the silence and waves Rogers' ' _On becoming a person: A therapist's view of psychotherapy'_ in front of him. He sighs and drops the book on Yuuri's bed. "And you're leaving the _DSM-5_ too?"

He flinches, it's a small twitch that probably is just that, small. Hopefully, too small to notice. He feels the guilt wash over him, it feels sticky and makes him think derogatory thoughts about himself. He tries to play it off, adding a little laugh to make himself come up with something smart, something clever. Something that would suit a psych major. He fails, he realises, as soon as he opens his mouth. "Well, thing is… I'm not sure I'll be doing this when I get home. I kind of need distance to it all."

Phichit's eyes are huge, growing larger by every passing second. It's like he doesn't believe him.

"So, that's why I'm leaving them. For you. You can take them. If you're ever going for a masters, they'll be useful."

Yuuri can tell that Phichit's not convinced, and why should he be. But he collects himself with a sigh and seemingly tries to make sense of the nonsense he's just heard. "And… you taking Nikiforov's books with you back to Japan will help you do what, exactly? It's not like he's delivering the ultimate truth in any of them, right? Like, the answer to what the meaning of life is? What to do when you're experiencing a huge change in your life's circumstances?"

Of course he isn't delivering any truths. Just his own. Yuuri knows that all too well, he knows Victor's books by heart. What he's really hoping for is to get back to that connection again, to find some kind of relief in the words creating every paragraph. Just like before, when he felt interested and hungry. It's with great trepidation he understands that it just doesn't feel the same anymore. He's just as lost as before. And the guilt that follows, that voice telling him that he's wasted his own time and his parents' money on something he got caught up in, mostly because he wanted to be like someone else, is devastating. It's been a costly thing for his parents, his quest to try and understand himself more than anything else.

"Oh, I don't know," he finally replies. "I need to think. That's all."

"I can't believe you. You're not going to pursue this at all?"

"I might. Sometime. But… not now. I can't."

Phichit gives him that look, that look that says 'oh, I know what you're doing' without the words being spoken out loud. But he does anyway, lets them roll off his tongue that makes Yuuri think that his best friend sees him as daft. Slow at best. "It this because of him? The display yesterday?"

In some bizarre way, Victor Nikiforov's actions added straws to the back of an already very wobbly camel. Yuuri hates to admit it, although the actions of the Russian rising star of clinical psychology aren't the entire truth. He's been unsure about his choices for a very long time. Struggling with his studies, wanting to quit on multiple occasions. Also, fighting for five years have landed him nothing more than a bachelor's degree in psychology. What can a person actually do with that? He thinks he's being the reasonable one now, taking time off to see if something will happen, if the drive can possibly come back.

They agree to leave the discussion, with a look that says it all. After making the final cup of noodles, splitting it and eating it together with reverence, laughing at stupid memories of everything and nothing, they decide to go to bed. Yuuri's the first one to leave during the morning and is afraid he'll sleep past the alarm.

The lights are turned off, it becomes quiet. For too long, they're both listening to the breaths of the other, feeling the saddening goodbye coming closer with every passing minute. It has been an experience for the both of them, growing up together in a sense. They're both going to miss it, miss _this._ The feeling of gaining a confidant, a best friend, a brother.

"Phichit?"

"Yes?"

"We'll stay in touch, right?"

"Of course we will! What, are you breaking up with me?"

Yuuri laughs at the pretended distress in Phichit's voice. "Of course not! I… I just wanted to know." He sighs. "This feels scary."

"I know. You'll do fine. We'll both do fine."

"I hope you're right."

"Of course I am."

"Somehow, I don't think it's possible getting any closer to you and I just… I want to keep it that way. Thank you for these three years."

"Yuuri, I swear. If you don't stop right now, two things will happen. One; you'll sleep through your alarm tomorrow. And two; you're probably going to make me cry. Please don't make me cry."

Yuuri's reply is muffled, more like a hum of agreement. He can't do anything else, trying to keep his voice under control as he buries his face in his pillow, feeling it getting wetter with every open-mouthed exhale.

* * *

The goodbye was everything he imagined it to be. Right then and there, it felt like climbing a mountain. Taking on something unsurmountable. If saying those words would act as a divider, rendering it impossible for them to ever see each other again. Yuuri fought himself. As if fidgeting, unpacking and packing all morning would make the inevitable go away. As if stalling makes it easier.

Finally, they said their farewells. Standing outside on the parking lot, waiting for Yuuri's taxi to arrive. The words, a hug and a quick 'see you later' from Yuuri and a 'tell me when you're home' from Phichit. A hurtful jab on the inside, something wanting to get out. Getting into the backseat of the taxi. Clenching jaws trying to seem relaxed. Looking out. Feeling more lost than ever.

Yuuri sighs at the memory. He's made a lot of them in Detroit, but not one has impacted him even remotely the same. He rolls over to his side. Now, he's home. In his childhood home, in the room that always have been his. In the bed where he's shed many tears, mostly not knowing why.

He can't help himself feeling overwhelmed. It suddenly dawns on him that he hasn't got a place anywhere where he can be himself, feel like himself. Whatever _that_ is. It's been a long time since he actually felt in tune with everything that is going on inside. He can't remember when he last felt content, at ease with himself and his body and his thoughts. The thoughts scares him, as he clutches one of his pillows.

The small note on the inside of the front door of the family-owned inn made that perfectly clear too, that he probably wouldn't find his peace here either. His mother's neat handwriting, telling him that they'll say hello in the morning instead. That he should try to be as quiet as possible because of guests staying there. That they've been waiting for him and that they're happy he's home. _Right. So happy that they stayed up. Waiting._

He tries to divert his thoughts but doesn't get very far. The stinging sensation behind his eyelids takes over, procreates inside him and latches on to everything that makes him feel. With a hurting chest and a convulsing throat, he tries to focus on breathing.

Retrospectively, he can't pinpoint the exact moment when he fell asleep, again with his cheeks wet from tears carrying so much more than sadness with them.

* * *

As he walks down the hall, he doesn't feel anything resembling intense sorrow or sadness at all. He feels happy. Content. Somewhat giddy.

His feet are moving by themselves, it's like he knows where to go although he hasn't seen the place before. It's white. Sterile looking. Resembling a hospital, maybe? No, not quite. Hospitals have that smell. That smell of latex gloves, disinfectant, anxiety, coffee… No, this place smells nothing like that. It smells like nothing. Like breathing in fresh air. Air without the salty undertones of the sea, without the reassuring hint morning dew, without the crispness of frost, without the allure of wet asphalt. Nothing, absolutely nothing at all.

Every step he takes echoes a bit in the hallway. Bounces of the walls but not harshly. It's a soft, muffled sound that is given back to him. As if walking through piles of leaves could make an echo. It sounds like he's walking fast, picking up the pace with each and every step. Yes, something is pulling him in, telling him to hurry. Telling him to get closer.

He gives in. Gives in to the pull. The invisible force commanding him. The brisk walk becomes a little jog, the heels of his shoes clack against the floor. Still muffled, still making the softest echo. It's strange how he never thinks of the corridor to be long, he just wants to get to the end of it. To get to what's there.

The walls are bare, windowless. Not a single door can be seen on any of the seemingly endless walls that make up the hall. But after a while, he just _knows_. It's there. The door that he is so desperate to go through, the one that makes his knees weak for some reason. The one which holds everything in between hopes and dreams locked in tight behind it. Strange, how he just knows.

The jog becomes a run. The feeling isn't far from running through sand, slightly straining, somewhat slowing. But he needs to get there. He wants to get there. He wants to see it for himself, everything behind that door. The feeling inside pulsates, becomes euphoric. Spreads a warmth with every clench and relaxation he feels inside his chest.

He suddenly feels detached from himself. The happiness and the contentment are taken over by a distress. The walls are seemingly closing in, they seem to get blurry, wavy like flags caught in the wind. That makes him not only run, it makes him charge. He needs to find… what was that again, the thing he was heading for? He can't remember all of a sudden. He decides to carry on, shoot through the whiteness without stopping. Feeling his heart beat harder, faster. Now, it's not euphoric, it's painful. Instead of a heady warmth, he senses a taste of metal in his mouth.

He's exerting himself, he realises that but he doesn't understand why. Why did he even start running? For how long has he been elongating his strides, pushing himself forward, trying to gain more momentum by engaging his arms in the process?

He gets surprised. It's there all of a sudden, after him blinking. Like it showed up out of thin air. It's a door. Bending over, trying to draw as much air down into his lungs by the help of his diaphragm, he steadies himself with one hand on the handle. He doesn't want to open that door, he's petrified. But he knows that he needs to escape the narrowing hallway, the billowing walls, the rocking floor. He doesn't want to die there, but the feeling that takes over him tells him that if he's not going to hurry up, that will be his fate.

He finds a little strength inside that makes him stand up straight. His eyes travel across the door. A… plaque? He doesn't recognise the writing, which makes his efforts of calming himself all in vain. Why is that? Where is he? What is this place? The panic is closing in, much like the walls around him. Threatening to crush him.

All of a sudden, the foreign letters make up something. He feels relaxed again. Warm inside. He dares to look over his shoulder, and seeing everything being straight and true, not curvy, wavy, billowing or winding just makes perfect sense.

 _Observatory._

That is what it says on the door. He knows it in him that it's the right one, the one he'd been wanting to find.

As he presses down the handle, opening up a small slit in the door, it becomes bright. Brighter than the white walls he has on his left and right. Brighter than anything else. As he opens the door, he hears a voice. It's not being spoken, it harbors inside him. Like it's a thought but belonging to someone else.

' _There you are! You sure took your time!'_

He steps inside. The white light isn't burning his eyes at all, it soothes them. But he can't see anything, he can only feel the presence of someone else. Someone's coming, that he understands without being surprised. He feels hands on him, arms around him. Although he cannot see, he feels something. The exact thing that made him start running. It fills him up, makes him feel at ease. At home.

' _It's beautiful, isn't it?'_

Inside him, he agrees, although he's enveloped by the light. By the soothing, softly blinding whiteness.

He wants to say something, but it's hard. Impossible, even. Like the words get stuck in his mouth and can't bring themselves to escape.

' _Relax, you don't need to.'_

He feels hands travel, explore. He wants to see them, he wants to see them when they're touching him and his face. He wants to see who they belong to but even more so, he wants to see. Everything. Everything that makes him want to curl up, burrow in. Reciprocate all that those invisible hands are making him feel. The feeling of being safe, cared for and… something else as well. Something he's got no name for.

His head is tilted back, he doesn't brace himself. He gives. Knowing what will happen next, preparing himself for it when the light suddenly becomes dark with an inaudible boom and the sensation of hands is starting to disappear.

"No!" He's got a voice now. "I want to stay!"

He tries to feel where the heat is disappearing from, from all the places on his body where he's been touched. "Don't go! I want to know you! Who are you?!"

' _Who I am? What kind of question is that? You know me.'_

"No, no I don't! Tell me who you are, where do I find you?!"

' _What's more important, finding me or finding you? You'll understand soon enough.'_

The voice within him, the conscious thought inside him grows weak. Adding to his desperation, erupting from places he never have understood existed. Drowning him. Suffocating him. Making him cry out, one more time.

"Tell me who you are! Please!"

' _No. If you find yourself, you'll find me. I have trust in you, my everything. My_ ㅡ'

* * *

"ㅡno wait!"

The sound of his own voice wakes him. His eyes are open, but he can't see. He is blinded, not by light but a blurry darkness. One that he succumbs to without putting up any resistance.


	2. Chapter 2

When he wakes up, the first thing that washes over him is a peculiar feeling. Although he's straight out of a deep sleep, he feels uneasy, stressed. Like he's been through something he doesn't understand. Something that's even harder to remember. It's like he's struck by electric impulses every time he blinks, and every time his eyes close, he sees something. He can't hold on to the images inside his head, it's like they're governed by a strange magnetism. Whenever he thinks he can bring them out, they disappear. Taken by an invisible force. Making them impossible to remember.

He tries to keep his eyes closed, hoping it will coax an image out but he's left disappointed. It's black underneath his eyelids. Totally empty. He understands that something happens when he blinks, that muscle contraction acts as a catalyst for that brief part of a second. Not letting him in on anything, although he wants to.

He swings his legs over the side of his bed and bends over, reaching for his glasses on the floor. As he puts them on, he does remember something. It passes through him, as he blinks. He straightens up. _What was that? Just now?_ He tries to keep it close, the memory. Tries to hold on to it. _It was white. And warm._

He tries to bring it back, putting his head in his hands in a futile attempt to concentrate, but no fluttering eyelids can make him see. Make him feel. The moment is gone. Like it never happened.

He stands up and walks the two or so paces over to his desk. According to his phone, it's early in the afternoon. He sighs at the discovery. It's impossible for him to not feel uncomfortable realising that the rest of his family have been up for hours already, tending to the inn. Letting him sleep. The feeling of embarrassment creeps up on him, making him slightly reluctant to take the step and emerge from his room, but he does after some convincing. _Jet lag. Horrible._

It's quiet as he walks through the door, down the hall and down the stairs.

"Hello? Excuse me?" He scoffs slightly as soon as his understands the impact of his words. He really feels like a stranger in his own home. That realisation stings a bit.

"Yuuri?" A voice travels down to where he stands, right by the stairs. He could recognise that voice anywhere.

"It's me, mom." He exhales, trying to make that tremble inside go away. "I'm home now."

Hurried steps resound from the kitchen. He knows the amount of steps, the number of seconds before he they'll be standing in front of each other. Face to face for the first time in five years. Sixteen steps, and roughly nine seconds, that's all it'll take. If she doesn't run. He starts to count.

She doesn't run. But when she emerges, he starts to. He doesn't get his speed up, they're too close being nothing more than five steps apart, but he wants to hurry. He needs to. He wants some of the emptiness he feels inside to go away. No, he wants it to be filled, he wants to press a lot into that void.

"Hi darling," she says, arms around him. Patting his back. "How was your trip?"

"It was fine. I'm sorry."

She pushes him away a little, keeps him at an arm's length away from herself. "Sorry? What for, Yuuri?"

"Oh, a lot of things." He shrugs her hands off, trying to be as gentle as he possibly can. After all, it's not her fault. None of this is.

"If it's about not coming home, don't be. We couldn't make it to your graduation either." She smiles and puts a hand to his cheek. "Go to the dining hall, I'll make you something to eat."

He feels her eyes on him when he does what she told him to. Feeling his bottom lip tremble with every step.

* * *

It's like time never bothers that place. His childhood home. Everything is where it always has been. The family photos, the little bell on the front desk, the picture of the bay outside Hasetsu on the far side of the dining hall. Even his room, it has always looked the same. The only thing acting as an evidence to the passing of time is his family. They have all aged, and so has he.

Strange how the paradox affects him. Filling him with prickles of comfort and loss at the same time. He doesn't know if it's all nostalgia, but it feels like it becomes important to look at them, to really look at them. His mom, his dad, his sister. Even though the inn won't change, they will. He wants to remember them before it becomes too late, before the memories aren't available to him anymore. He doesn't understand where that desperation comes from, it's new and unfamiliar. It feels strange when that sensation makes itself known.

"What's up with you?" His sister tries to get a cigarette out of the packet she fished out of the pocket of her apron. He reckons she's bothered by his unintentional stare.

"Nothing." He averts his eyes, feeling embarrassed with being caught. He didn't mean to, he just got… lost, somehow.

"Then, come help me. We have rooms to clean."

A small smile teases the corners of his mouth as she turns around. It's not only the inn that makes it feel like time has stood still. His sister is treating him like he's always been there, not saying anything about his five years being away and not coming home. Like he's the _little brother_. His parents are doing their best to make it appear like that too, like he's never been gone. He can't help but wonder why, and finally decides that they're probably thinking that it'll be easier for him. That it'll make the transition coming home a lot less dramatic. Not as full of expectations?

"So…" He begins hesitantly, walking behind her. Feeling like he should make some kind of conversation at least. "What's new?"

"Ah, you know," she exhales, the cigarette smoke enveloping her in a small cloud, "nothing really. How about you, little brother? What's new?"

There's so much he would like to tell her. If he dared. If he felt like they had that connection, that relationship. She has always been the big sister, in all aspects and he still feels small, sometimes even inferior in comparison. He answers in the only way he knows how. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Hmm…" She puffs out another cloud of smoke. And another. "Wat'cha gonna do?"

"Eh?" The question surprises him. It makes him wonder if she is actually trying to have a conversation with him as an adult. He's not sure, and answers accordingly. "Cl… clean the rooms with you?"

She scoffs before she puts out the cigarette against the sole of her slipper, shoving the sad little excuse of delight back in the packet. "Not now. Later. In the future. You have plans, don't you?" She sounds awfully blasé to him.

"I… I kind ofㅡ"

"Yuuko's married with three kids, you know. Honestly, Yuuri. What are you going to do with your life?"

The words cuts him deep. Why did his sister feel the need to compare him to a childhood friend? The one that stayed. In Hasetsu. His thoughts take off, fills his head like a swarm. _She has never felt the need of searching. Everything she ever wanted was here. For her to find._

He realises that he's not sure who he is referring to in his mind. His sister or his childhood friend. Also, he regrets everything negative he's ever thought about their big sister-little brother relationship up until now. He really wants to be that little brother no one has grown-up conversations with, all of a sudden. It was easier being that person. The one being small, too small to understand things about life.

"Don't get me wrong," his sister continues as she pulls apart the sliding doors to the room they both stopped in front of. "It's good that you're here and all, mom's happy and dad is too, but they gave you a chance. You realise that, don't you? So," she walks into the room and starts stripping the futon mattresses on the floor of their bedclothes, "do _something_."

"Mari, I, um... kind of…" The silence is awkward, a good description of how he's feeling.

She walks towards him with the bedclothes pouring over her arms. She hands them to him with a little sigh. "I hear you. Don't take forever figuring it out. Okay?" She slides past him without even stopping.

* * *

It's strangely comforting. The monotony, the seemingly endless days repeating themselves. He falls into the routines without even questioning them. To him, it feels like a saving grace. It gives him a little more time. Time he probably should spend on other things than pushing things away, being alone. Not making any decisions.

His procrastination is sustained by the well-meant, but ineffective, silence from his family. They don't want to push him, he realises. They are just happy that he's home. Although the feeling of them having their eyes on him, silently judging him and his inexplicably bad skills when it comes to making decisions, picking paths, is something he just cannot shrug off. He feels like it's an elephant in the room. Him coming home after years abroad, not taking charge of his life. Just bobbing along, waiting for greater things to happen.

It's when he has days like that, he's happy to have someone he feels like he can talk to. Although it's been more than a month already since they parted ways, connecting with Phichit has always been easy. It's like they can pick up where they left off, it's not strange at all. They just fall into each other's descriptions of everyday life, without no effort.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Yuuri," Phichit says over a video chat using Skype. "It feels the same, still?"

"It does. You know, I have never felt so lost, so out of place." He frowns a little. "I thought that coming home would make something happen. Like, open up something. Make me reconnect with… well, myself really, but it's the opposite. Argh, I just don't know what to do!"

"Do you feel pressured? I mean, do they _say_ anything about you not knowing what to do?"

"Well, Mari kind of has. Mom and dad keeps a low profile. I just can't stop imagining what they think. What they _really_ think of me."

"Stop it, can't you hear yourself? There's nothing wrong with not knowing what to do. You know what? Is it okay if I make you to think of something else?"

"Please!" He laughs by the seriousness of Phichit's voice.

"You know… Hah, I'm a bit embarrassed to tell you this but I kind of want you to know. On Facebook, there's this groupㅡ"

"Don't tell me you _did_? Phichit!"

"Hey, don't judge me! Keep an open mind until I'm done telling you about it, okay? Anyway, yes I did. I sent a message to the admin of that group. He's posted my story and contact info so… who knows, Yuuri? There might be someone else out there."

"I really hope that you didn't use your real name or anything because… well, I know that he totally rubbed you the wrong way, but Victor had a point when he had his lecture. About people looking for cues? You know, people that might actually not be so, uh… well?"

"Do you think I'm an idiot? Of course I didn't post my real name! I gave out another e-mail address too, so don't worry. I mean, if there are people out there with the same experiences, they will get it by that brief description, I'm sure."

"Phichit, forgive me for sounding harsh but… what good will it do? I mean, suppose that there are people out there with the same experiences as you, the same dreams… what then? What do you think you'll end up with?"

Phichit becomes quiet for a while, before he answers. "Honestly? I'm not sure but there's something that tells me that they are important. The dreams, I mean. Like there's something I just don't understand about them, you know? And if I, no, _when_ I find out, it'll make perfect sense."

Yuuri thinks to himself that he still doesn't understand how it could be that important to his friend, but decides against saying anything else. After all, he secretly wished that he could find something he would get invested in, himself. Something that would make him feel at ease. Certain about… well, anything. But that was wishful thinking as far as he was concerned.

"I hope someone will step forward, Phichit. I really do.

"Thanks. I hope so too. I'm not hanging up my life around it, though it would be fantastic if there was someone out there who… ah, nevermind. Oh, Yuuri, I have to go. Talk to you later, okay?"

"Sure. I was thinking about going to bed anyway so… See you later, Phichit."

"You too. Take care. Oh, and Yuuri?"

"Mhm?"

"Don't be so hard on yourself, okay? Good night."

"Night."

He closes his laptop with a sigh. He was alone. Again. Wondering if the bothersome feeling would ever subside.

* * *

Phichit started to have peculiar dreams by the age of fourteen. When his parents divorced and his father took him to their new home in Bangkok, that's when they started. With him being alone in his new room, in a new home, in a new city. Without the access to both of his parents. Feeling lost beyond compare.

He still remembered the first dream he had, like it was yesterday. It was strange to him, like he'd been somewhere else. He thought of it to be a laboratory, or maybe even a hospital at first. The clinical whiteness of it all made it easy for him to draw such conclusions. He could hear voices around him, feel presences too, but it was impossible to see them. To really see them. He was always blinded by a whiteness that didn't come from the surroundings. More like it had an ethereal source.

It took a while for him to, what he always thought of describing the phenomenon anyway, _ease into them_. The dreams. They weren't frequent for the first couple of years, which made it difficult to get comfortable with them. They never scared him, they just left a strange feeling when he woke up. Thinking that he'd been through something important. Although he could almost remember that he'd had them, experienced them rather, it wasn't until later when they started impacting him. When he actually remembered them, when they left behind emotions and a strange state of mind.

It happened when the whiteness went away for the very first time.

 **-xoxo-**

"Good morning." The voice was still the only thing standing out, in all the blinding white. It wasn't his, though. This belonged to someone else, someone he'd been speaking to several times by now. He'd just started to remember the sound of the voice. Slightly authoritarian, decisive. A natural born leader, it seemed.

"Good morning. Did you sleep well?" This is his voice, at least in this context. It's nothing like his own, it's deeper, more mature. He stopped fighting it a long time ago, stopped trying to make his own resound through the body he still hadn't seen.

"Very much so. Are there others coming today?"

"Yes, three more. Then, we'll be a full crew."

"Fair enough."

"You sound sad, almost. Why?"

"Oh, I was getting used to it being the three of us here, that's all."

"They'll be qualified, nothing to worry about." He feels his body turn. His eyes are probably trying to look at something he cannot see. "Oh, where isㅡ" Again, that static. As always when someone is about to get mentioned by name. The dull noise that drowns out everything. He still knows nothing about them, the other two keeping him company. Except the sound of their voices.

"Still sleeping, I take it."

"Do I need to go?"

"No, it's fine. They won't be here for some time. Don't worry."

He feels himself walk off. Walk for some time, in a seemingly endless, white corridor. Strange, how details start to emerge whenever he walks away from the other people, that is what he labels them inside of himself anyway, when the complete whiteness slowly fades away. Only to be substituted with more white, although not enveloping. Something that feels real.

He has something to do. It's with purposeful strides he walks down the hall, before he suddenly turns to his right. He's done this numerous times by now, this walk. This turn. This opening of the second door to the left. Where he will remain for hours on end, monitoring screens, writing down numbers on different sheets of paper, comparing them to other sheets of paper. He still doesn't understand what it is he's doing, but he understands that he's taking his time. Doing it right. It must be important, or else he wouldn't be this diligent. Making sure that nothing gets overlooked.

It feels like a minute or so have passed, but considering the amount of data written down in neat rows on pieces of paper, graphs showing up on screens in front of him, how _tired_ he's starting to feel… It must have been hours. It's strange how time feels here, how it flows, how it's perceived. He stretches out, making a little noise as his muscles are filled with blood before he relaxes.

He gets startled when a buzzing sound is heard, making him stand up and walk over to a device. Whilst pressing it he speaks. "Yes?"

"They're here. Come over."

"Observatory?"

"Sure, we'll take them there."

He feels a bit excited. He has been looking forward to meeting the rest of the people he will be spending an undisclosed amount of time with. He walks briskly through the hallway again, hearing his pulse resound in his ears. He starts to jog a little, thinking that he's probably the last one to arrive. He feels a bit bothered by the fact, but at least he's done what is expected of him.

He opens the door, and that whiteness takes over.

"Hello, I'm so sorry for letting you wait!" He extends his hand, feels it being squeezed not once, not twice but three times. Different sensations with every handshake, although the hands and their owners remain invisible to him. One hand feels larger than the others, one feels kind of soft. The last one feels like it's trying too much. His hand stings a bit. He understands that they present themselves, hearing that dull noise again. "You've said hello already?" He understands that he nods towards the other two that have been keeping him company.

"Yes, we have. And you? You're not going to tell them your name?"

He laughs, feeling a bit silly that he'd forgotten the point of introducing oneself. "I'm sorry," he says with the embarrassment colouring his voice. "I'm Ogma."

He only has a couple of seconds to register what is happening. It's not white anymore. Five people are standing before him, but he can't really focus. It feels like he's being pulled away, his vision gets blurry and he silently hopes, silently prays that he will remember them now that he's been given the opportunity to see.

 **-xoxo-**

He wakes up with a jolt. It's still dark, but there he is. Wide awake. It feels different now, he realises. It's like he has woken up with a new understanding. He doesn't quite get of what, exactly, but inside him, there's a calm.

He feels a happiness inside, too. They're not fleeting anymore. The dreams. He remembers the one he just had perfectly, although he wanted to know more. Know more about the people he'd been orbiting around, off and on for years, only distinguished by the sound of their voices. He was just about to see them, really see them, before he was whisked away. Ending up in his own bed, not feeling tired at all.

He walks over to his desk and rips out a page from his notebook. He writes down the one thing he remembers clearly. It was his name. Not _his_ name, but the other him, the him he becomes every now and then when he sleeps. The knowledge of finding out who he is, who he really is, feels like a monumental gain. Even though it's only his name. Somehow, knowing his name feels like a key to something else.

He folds the paper up and puts it inside the drawer of his nightstand.

 _I will make you known to me. You just wait._ He laughs, surprised by his thought full of purpose. _I'll find out all about you._

* * *

He feels his phone buzzing in his pocket when he's almost drifting off to sleep in his bed. He decides to look, he might just as well since it's late and he's still fully clothed. He needs to take care of that and go to bed properly.

"Phichit, huh?" He squints, having a hard time to see without his glasses. ' _Get online NOW!'_ He writes him back, asking him if he know what time it is and that he was going to sleep. Another message lights up his phone. ' _You don't want to miss this!'_

He sighs, and does what he's told. As his laptop is booting up, he walks out of his room and over to the bathroom to start brushing his teeth. He can't help himself, he feels a little curious. A silly thought passes through his mind. Maybe Phichit has found something, maybe a new paper or some other kind of publication from… He scoffs. _What, Victor Nikiforov?_

He feels a little sting inside. Like scoffing and thinking of him whilst doing it creates some kind of discord. He doesn't want it to. To sting, anyway.

He returns to his room, still whisking around his toothbrush in his mouth. He starts Skype, and Phichit pops up within seconds.

"Hey are you… What are you doing?"

"Bwusshin muh teef," he responds, froth taking over his mouth.

"Oh, I can see that. Anyway, you don't have to talk, you can just listen. Remember the group I got something posted in?"

Yuuri holds up a finger in front of the computer screen, gesturing Phichit to wait as he returns to the bathroom. He spits out the excess toothpaste and froth in his mouth before walking back to his room, slightly annoyed that he was woken up by something so trivial. He'd forgotten about it at least, Phichit looking for answers and resorting to Facebook, being a few weeks since they last spoke.

"I'm back," he declares as he sits down in front of the laptop. "Now, I do remember. What about it?"

It seems like Phichit is holding his breath, like he's going to burst any second if he can't tell him what is on his mind right this second. "I got an answer!"

Yuuri looks at him. He understands that he must convey an air of indifference, seeing how Phichit's excited expression turns into something more sour.

"I got an answer, Yuuri! I think… I think it's for real!"

"Wait, what? The dreams, you mean?"

"No, not the dreams, silly! The people! There are other people having them! I told you, I knew it!"

"I… uh… Congratulations?"

"Wow, aren't you excited?"

"I guess? I… yes, okay. I'm happy for you. This is something you've been thinking about for a long time so… But wait, Phichit?"

"Yes?"

"How do you know that they're not random crazies? How do you _know_?"

"I asked them questions, of course."

Yuuri sighs. He loves his best friend, he really does but sometimes… Everything is too simple, too unproblematic to him that he can't help but worry. They're opposites in that regard, Phichit being easy going and taking everything that comes his way with a smile while he, on the other hand is… more guarded, afraid of letting people in.

On the inside, he scoffs but he manages to keep his voice from sounding too judgmental. "You asked them _questions_?"

"Of course," Phichit retorts. "Stuff that only people having these dreams could ever know about. They… they just knew, Yuuri. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I… I think I do. There are other people supposedly sharing your dreams?"

"Well, of course, that's what I just told you! No Yuuri, it's like…" Phichit pauses, like he's trying to find the right words, the right expression to use without it becoming strange. He looks away as he's thinking, before he looks straight into the camera on his computer. "Yuuri, it means that there… there are others like me."


End file.
